


why not try it all (if you only remember it once)

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, M/M, One Night Stands, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23693899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: "Have you ever made a mistake, big guy?" Jason asks like all this time he's been waiting for him to come to such a resolution."Is that an invitation?" He tilts his head, a small movement, barely there, and can immediately tell that was the right answer when Jason smiles a private, secretive thing.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Jason Todd, unrequited Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, unrequited Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 20
Kudos: 147





	why not try it all (if you only remember it once)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/gifts).



> first note: the sex scene refused to cooperate with me. i am sorry. you will have to fill in the blanks...................................
> 
> second note: HELLO KURO HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I know I'm late and I'm sorry but this is my gift for you and I hope you like it, my dear friend!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I should've finished this a long time ago, but per the first note, the sex scene refused to work with me here. It should still be enjoyable!
> 
> third note: canon is a big lie. it doesn't exist. whoooosh!
> 
> final note: the title comes from a song by the strokes, "i'll try anything once"

**why not try it all (if you only remember it once)**

If it weren’t for the tight control he has on his senses, he wouldn’t be able to stay here for longer than a second. The place is crowded, dark with titillating fluorescent lights and clouds of smoke that chase away any breathable air. Music so loud it vibrates _through_ him, he can feel it reverberating in his ribcage, in his head and mixing with the beating of his blood. The youthfulness that surrounds him, though, that is what really makes him regret this decision.

He doesn’t belong here, in this world of impudence, of freedom, of thinking of oneself as larger than life, even if for just a night. He doesn’t belong among the writhing, dancing youth, among their carefree smiles and the sound of their laughter that drowns out the heavy bass blaring through the speakers. Even the sweet drink he foolishly holds in one hand is mocking him, taunting him. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have tried—

But then the sea parts and next to him lands a pair of steel-toed combat boots, tight jeans and a smile sharper than any kryptonite-made batarang. This one (he) is warm, is cold, is a million reasons all in one of why everything about this place is a bad idea. One he had let Hal talk him into, let Barry convince him and Oliver seal the deal. Of course, when they had done all that, they hadn’t known what it truly meant, what he truly wanted, and it’s possible they might never get it (even with all their good intentions). But it’s no longer possible that he might carry this to the grave along with his many other repressed secrets. He's lived his life enough to know that nothing escapes a bat's radar. Even less so when you're in direct range. 

Shame so sharp and distinctive that leaves him feeling what he hardly ever is, he turns to face a pair of eyes too much like another's. It doesn't make any of this easier. 

"Fancy seeing you here," Jason breathes life like it escapes him, voice and demeanor a spear through the gut, "can't say it isn't a surprise."

Truth is, he is a fool for thinking himself safe as long as he remained away from Gotham when they are all globetrotters, taking existence by the proverbial horns.

His grip on the glass is firm but even that feels like it's slipping from him. Together with his heart. "Jason," he names the curse that was a blessing or the blessing that brought a curse, it's hard to be sure even now. "I didn't expect to find anyone... here."

"Ah," the knowing glint in his eyes is a particular flame of hellfire, one made to fit. "Don't worry about it," his lips twitch once, the only awkward action so far, "I won't tell anyone. It's not like they really know about me either."

"I'm not-"

"Right, 'course you aren't, _Clark_ ," Jason's smile glints and what a huge misstep he just made, exposing himself in such a way for a sharp mind like Jason's to see. "At least do something about the sparkly drink in your hand. I think seeing you hold it is enough to traumatize me."

And Clark knows deflection like he knows wind itself, still he accepts the familiarity of it, the concession. It soothes him in ways not many things can. Even in this, they are alike—

No. It's a dangerous path to follow, he realizes the moment the thought is taking over his mind, demanding more. Jason's still looking at him, beer in one hand and the other empty yet full with millions of outcomes. Of anyone he could've run into, of anyone else in the world…

"What are you doing here?" he asks as they move closer in tandem, sharing an unspoken rhythm. Trying to occupy as little space as possible with moving strangers all around them.

"Not here for a mission, if that's what you were wondering," blue to green to impossible eyes shift from person to person and he tips his head back to enjoy the last of his drink. Clark watches his throat work before looking away. This is Jason. Just Jason. At the same time: only and all of Jason, vestiges of shadows clinging to him and of hands that come from a thousand origins. “Sometimes the best remedy for heart burn is distance.”

Perhaps is his surprise over the easy admission what makes him feel adrift, like he's lost in uncharted regions. There's consolation in knowing that anyone and everyone often end up feeling like that when confronted with one of the bats (heightened if it's _the_ bat himself). It still doesn't make it any easier. Even less so when he understands so easily, because he's doing the same.

"You seem quite sure that they don't know," Clark finds himself saying, biting back the always charged f-word because giving that one to Jason, even on the good days, can end in disaster.

"Yeah, well," he shrugs and they are standing close enough for Clark to feel the movement brushing against him, a promise made of leather and quickly taken decisions, "I don't care. It's not like I'm hiding it. Their choice to ignore it or say something about it — not like I'll listen, if they do."

Against his better judgement, he doesn’t fight the smile that last comment brings to his lips. It’s refreshing and somehow eases the sharpness of the edge forming inside him.

He hums, turning the thought over for a moment. “I haven’t told anyone,” there’s power to the words and their strength make even someone like Jason stand still. Clark can hear the smallest of changes in his heartbeat. He also notices that the rhythm of it is not the one he remembers. “I don’t think they’d understand. I still… I still have to understand it, myself. Even if it’s been a long time coming.”

“Huh,” Jason breathes and for just an instant he looks caught off guard, one second away from misstepping. He looks younger when he’s not busy keeping himself out of reach. He looks alive. “Well,” his eyes flicker from one point to another of their surroundings. That’s another stutter in the beating of his heart. “Does being here help? Understand, I mean.”

The switch from one song to another is almost imperceptible. The crowd around them keeps living like a symphony of movement. This time Clark really lets himself smile as he rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder. 

“Wish it did,” he admits, feeling like he’s won something unique when the other smiles as well, even if it’s hesitant. “But it’s not really, well, my scene.”

“Too rowdy for your good boy sensibilities?” The barely-there expression turns into a grin now before he tilts his head towards the main entrance, “Come on, then. I’m not losing anything by ditching this place, either.”

Now, Clark is no Barry but he can be fast, too. He runs through all possible scenarios he can think of in the tender fracture of a moment, runs them down and unwinds them. The invitation doesn't particularly mean something but it also doesn't imply nothing. He looks at the clear eyes watching him, sees the wisdom always alight in them, sees all the similarities… the things that should make him afraid of making a mistake.

Still, saying _no_ , that feels like the biggest mistake of all.

So Clark follows after Jason, setting his still full glass on an empty spot of the bar on their way out. It's a good thing he never drank it, alcohol and heartburn don't really mix too well. Or so he’s heard.

  
  


Jason uncaps another bottle of beer minutes after they make it into his safehouse. Clark is still not sure why Jason even has one here, so far away from any known territory with either hero or vigilante activity, or why Jason let him know of its existence. He shakes his head no when Jason offers him a beer and remains standing near the entrance, jacket draped over his forearm, unsure of whether this is a good idea or not. This place feels like a terribly powerful solvent that's been steadily stripping away coats of paint the moment they walked in. Almost like watching a metamorphosis with Jason becoming more _himself_ as well as _someone else_ …

Clark can't help but wonder, is Jason aware of the similarities? How many of them come from proximity, how many from shared and distant history, how many from their own minds? The question that he can't ask and that has so much evidence waiting for somebody to take a deeper look. But it won't be him. Simply because he _can't._

"Are you gonna stand by the door all night?" Jason's voice breaks through him with the precision of a scalpel cutting human skin. His leather jacket is thrown over the back of the couch he's leaning against. "Afraid I bite?"

Clark thinks a million things. Remembers a thousand more. "Even if you did," he finally takes careful steps further into the safehouse, gingerly draping his jacket next to Jason's, unable to ignore the twitch of muscles, the hitch in the release of air, "I don't think that'd do much damage."

“Right,” he breathes and the clip of his tone is this side too close to what Clark often dreams of. “I still might try, though. Who knows.”

“To bite me?”

Jason's breath smells faintly of alcohol. The curve of his lips spells something wicked and sharp. "To do a little damage."

The thing is, Clark knows he should leave. He should pick up his coat, smile as he gives a good reason for his departure. He knows that in the long run that would be the smarter option, the one that is not followed by either of them crashing and burning. He doesn't have alcohol to blame for his decisions. Anything that happens tonight will be on him, and no one else.

But… is it so wrong? To _wonder?_ After all this life spent denying himself that. Is it wrong that he's curious? That he _wants?_

Maybe because it's _Jason_ out of anyone else, because of the degree of separation between their ages, the difference in sheer power. Maybe because, when it comes right down to the broken bone, Jason is still _Bruce's son_ and Clark is the fool chasing after an unreachable goal.

_Maybe,_ is what he tells himself, doesn’t shy away from the inquisitive gaze, offers a small smile at the barely there hum. Maybe because it’s Jason indeed that there is something redeemable about the crazy idea. And it’s not that he doesn’t know what it is like to fall. He’s not a stranger to the feeling. He’s not above his knees meeting the ground.

"Have you ever made a mistake, big guy?" Jason asks like all this time he's been waiting for him to come to such a resolution. There is a song in his voice that raises shivers on Clark's skin.

_Of course I have,_ he wants to say. "Is that an invitation?" He tilts his head, a small movement, barely there, and can immediately tell that was the right answer when Jason smiles a private, secretive thing.

"Would you accept it, if it was?"

Clark moves closer, then, until he is all but towering over the other, until reality as they know it shrinks to just the two of them and no one else. 

"I would," he says, lifts his hand and lets his fingers drag against Jason's as he takes the bottle. Their eyes never waver when he rests his bottom lip on the surface of the glass rim, tilts it up and drinks. Jason's eyes are darker, now, black chasing green, and like this the last difference is almost completely erased. 

"It's a wrongly worded invitation, though," he continues, cheating a little and listening to the fine tune of Jason's heart beating faster. Clark rests his free hand atop the delicate juncture of throat and shoulder, allows his thumb to stroke the skin there. Feeling underneath his fingers the exhale the other gives. "You are no mistake, Jason."

But Jason just laughs at that, eyes gleaming with one too many hurtful things he could say, all at the tip of his tongue. And it's a nearly wonderful thing when he jumps right over them, when he breathes out in nearly a whisper: "Let's see if you still think that tomorrow."

It's a bitter preface to the kiss that follows. Clark figured from the start he wouldn't get anything sweet. This is a chapter taken out of his fantasies. This is how he always figured it would go.

He keeps his hand at the base of Jason's throat, keeps stroking the skin under his fingertips. Instead of pushing him closer, he's the one to move, the one to erase the distance between them, pressing his mouth fully into the kiss. Jason's lips aren't surprisingly soft, instead a little chapped, but plump and promising. He kisses them like his sole purpose in life is to feel their warmth. He kisses them until Jason's shivering against him, mouth opening an inch, a breathless gasp coming out that Clark basks in.

In that instant, his approach changes. He moves his hand from Jason's throat to wrap his arm around his waist. Pressing their bodies as close as they can be, he starts walking forward, doesn't stop when Jason fumbles, doesn't go easy with his kiss. He drags his teeth against a bottom lip, catches it between his own, bites a little, soothes the sting away with his tongue. He knows his smile can be felt when Jason clings onto him, lets himself be pushed up against the wall, moans and melts into Clark’s unrelenting kiss.

Once he has him there, he carelessly sets the bottle on an old table next to them, now free to caress Jason’s cheek, his jawline, pressing his thumb past Jason’s lips as he lowers his head to mark the delicate skin of the other’s throat. He inhales, closes his eyes as he feels a part of him running far, far away. The scent is not the same, of course it isn’t, but it still isn’t completely odd, and it’s easy to trick himself into thinking _it could be, this could be, we could be._

Even if there are so many little things that are breaking the illusion. Even if he never lets himself forget who he’s really with, what this is about. It’s easy to teether in between, to be somewhere between acceptance and denial and all the wrong kinds of pleasure that come with it.

“Clark,” Jason whispers, he feels the vibrations the sound makes as it’s pushed out through his mouth, a hint distorted around the finger he’s got trapped in the other’s lips. He squeezes his eyelids shut, the warmth inside threatening to give way to chill, and he keeps his kisses pressed to the pulse point he’s found until he’s certain the hint of winter is all thawned and melted.

There are hands tugging at his hair with enough force for him to truly feel it. The sensation itself is perfect. Too bad it can’t last for long. It shatters the miracle when he pulls away and lets himself look again, lets his eyes find another pair of eyes. And it's Jason the one he is seeing but not the one he wants. It's Jason, Jason, Jason, and he can't lie to himself, can't close his eyes and _pretend_ because even the heartbeat is a traitor. 

But neither of them deserve a lie and neither of them can have what they want. If Clark's hand hesitates before touching Jason's cheek once more, if Jason's breathing stutters like a wounded bird, neither say a thing. It's not their place to judge.

This is the kind of thing no one ever walks away from, this is the type of thing that changes you and changes the world around you. Clark is not one to shy away from the bullets raining down on him and even if it damns him he focuses on Jason’s face, looks into his eyes and see the hurricanes of pain storming in them. This is a pain he can’t punch away, a pain that runs too deep and costs too much blood, and maybe Jason can see the same things in Clark’s eyes, too, because the next thing they know they are both kissing, unwilling to blink away the sight.

Jason is movement incarnate against him, lips against lips spilling out a name - there is no surprise in it being the same for the both of them. And Jason’s groaning into Clark’s open mouth, slips his tongue inside, lets a quivering shiver run through him as they eat each other up until they are so full there is no option but to keep coming back for more.

Hoisting him up by his thighs, Clark still smiles, presses another kiss to Jason’s lips, carries them back to the couch. He carefully sets him down there, among the old cushions that go sunken under the weight, and the reverence he sees in Jason’s expression, Clark knows not all of that is meant for him. He’s not the only one two-timing delusion, wishing for someone else who is too present in his absence.

“Thought you’d judge me,” Jason says, he’s breathless and that makes him so enticing, so beautiful. The way they regain control of their breathing is exactly the same. Maybe their gasps sound the same. Their hushed curses no one else but him can hear.

“That’s not what you need,” Clark replies with, stroking the other’s hair, pushing the forelock (so clearly tinted black) back and fully exposing the younger features. When Jason smiles, this time it’s truly an honest thing.

“I’m surprised you’re not running away,” he admits the truth because when else is he going to do so with so little to lose, “thought you’d think me too rotten.”

“Jason,” Clark keeps a hand on the other’s hair, closing it tenderly, lifting the other to hold his chin, thumb finding a second time the promising pillow of those lips. “I’m as rotten as you are. We both want the same thing.”

“I know,” eyelids falling shut, the beginning of bliss is starting to show on the relaxed line of his eyebrows. “There’s no one else to want, is there?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” leaning down, he tilts the other’s head backwards until they are breathing the same air. Something tender is growing between them. Something fragile. Something that can break at their smallest of movements. “Maybe there is.”

As small as it might be, Jason still fits laying down on the couch, cheeks red and clothes gone. Clark fits, too, one knee on the old cushions, one foot on the floor, kissing and touching each scar and each patch of clear skin. Jason’s thighs, a feast for his hands and mouth, spread open and framing in perfection Clark’s hips. Jason’s hand between his own legs, fingers lost inside himself, and he’s quiet but generous with his gasps, feeding them to Clark’s ever growing hunger.

There is something addictive to the feeling Clark gets like this, with Jason underneath him, preparing himself for him, laid out like an offering of the most eager kind. It’s the feeling of feasting on _a bat,_ one of the most stubborn of their kind, having him at his disposal, for him to do and undo. Like he’s won the most sought after thing, the most wanted, the most sacred. This is _his_ for him to have, and he can only begin to imagine what the feeling would be like if instead of Jason he’d have underneath him— he’d have—

“Come on,” Jason grunts, voice shaking, barely loud enough to cover the squelch his lubed up fingers make as he thrusts them inside his stretched hole. “Come _on,_ I can _feel_ you thinking this, just, Clark, _Clark-_ ”

“I know, I know,” he says, moves up from his place on Jason’s chest and presses kisses to the other’s red and swollen lips, “I got you. Are you ready? Is this okay?”

“Jesus, yes,” he takes a deep breath as he pulls out his sticky fingers, moves both hands to each side of the couch and clings onto the thin dark fabric. “Just. Think I’m _him._ I’ll- I’ll think of him, too.”

Oh how wretched this is. How wrong. 

With a faint smile meant to be reassuring, he nudges to the back of his mind the fact that he’s never done this with a man before, lets instinct take over. Gripping himself with his hand, he guides the tip of his cock to Jason’s tender hole, strokes himself once, twice, until he’s covered in his own pre-release.

He looks up and Jason’s eyes are closed. Like this, with his hair dyed and the green of his pupils covered, he is just like him. He paints the exact same picture. Younger, sure, but _him,_ and he doesn’t think twice before he’s pushing in inside, committing to memory every twitch of the other’s eyebrows, white teeth digging into the flesh of his bottom lip, small droplets of sweat making his skin glisten. They both focus on their breathing, he keeps pressing inside, inch by inch, slowly, softly, paying attention to each little gasp. There is no room for pain here.

He sheathes himself fully inside. The _heat,_ the _pressure,_ it’s all _oh so divine._ He places his hands on each side of the other’s head, on top of the arm rest, squeezes down on it as much as he dares to without the whole couch crumbling apart under his strength. Not giving in and moving just like he wants, as hard and fast as he wants, it’s a much bigger test than he was anticipating, but he’s not gone enough for him to let go and potentially hurt the other.

And then Jason whines. A sound that breaks the sudden silence that had formed around them, pierces his chest, nests itself right there. Jason whines, hips twitching underneath him, the muscles of his thighs clenching and unclenching, and Clark focuses his gaze to find Jason looking at him with raw desperation. Hands move from the couch to Clark’s back, fingers tangling in his hair and nails scratching his back, taking what little leverage they can get for their owner. Clark is mesmerized.

“ _Move,_ ” Jason whispers, it’s all he can say before Clark is smashing their mouths together, before Clark complies to his forlorn plea.

Clark moves and takes. Lets Jason take his part as well. Together, like this, they commit a wrong that will not give a right. But it’s somewhere on the way to that.

  
  


Morning came and left by the time Clark’s got his clothes back on and is closing the door to the safehouse with a heavier weight in his chest than the one he walked in with. He gives himself a moment, just this one moment, to try and collect himself, piece his many parts back together, taking a deep breath in an attempt to find his center.

But all of that is in that couch, covered in a stray and scratchy blanket, with disheveled hair and bruised lips, with marks down his chest and between his thighs. His very air refused to come with him, instead clinging to Jason Todd, charged with the electricity of those vivid green eyes that watched him in silence as he left with a small distant goodbye.

The world knows no mercy. It keeps going on.

**Author's Note:**

> this is all me playing with the idea of "love what you get 'cause you won't get what you love"


End file.
